


The Scientist- Mystrade

by wingsofduskanddawn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:30:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2229075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingsofduskanddawn/pseuds/wingsofduskanddawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Songfic based off the song "The Scientist" by Coldplay, it's basically a Post-Reichenbach that covers the impact of Sherlock's return to London, as well as the time just after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scientist- Mystrade

The sky was dark and cold, England's perpetual heavy clouds hanging above their heads and looking like at any moment they were going to open up and drown the world. Gregory Lestrade couldn't find it in him to care as he looked across the graveyard. His eyes latched on Mycroft Holmes, who stood a distance apart, head bowed and exhaustion written on his features for a moment.

But when he realized he was being watched, he looked up, meeting the DI's gaze for a long, long moment. The funeral ended just then, and Greg began moving across the yard toward the young man, hands shoved down in his pockets for warmth. It was a cold day, but he'd forgotten a jacket, let alone an umbrella.

"Mycroft, I… I'm sorry for your loss." He said inadequately, wincing at the sound of his own voice. The other man was facing him, but he was almost looking through him as he responded with a soft smile that didn't reach empty eyes. Greg could barely catch his breath looking at the man.

Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry,

You don't know how lovely you are…

"Thank you, Gregory." It was the first time he'd ever called him by name, instead of simply "Detective Inspector Lestrade," but he had a feeling it wasn't deliberate. Mycroft was grieving, that much was obvious, and the strength of the pain revealed in every movement was shocking considering the turbulent relationship the two brothers had shared. He looked lost and alone, and Greg had to say… something.

"If you need me, call or stop by, okay? If you need anything at all, I will be there for you." Shaking his hand warmly, clasping those cold fingers between both his hands as if he could share heat with him when he had so little to spare himself, Greg waited for the politician to nod before walking away so that the handful of other mourners could have a word with him.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

When Greg opened his door sometime around midnight, grateful for a distraction because he wasn't able to sleep anyway, the last person he expected to see was Mycroft Holmes. He looked lost, still, both hands clasped around the handle of his umbrella. As he looked at Greg, he let the mask slip away, let his vulnerability show.

"I… I'm sorry, I… I know it's late, but I… Everything's a mess, Gregory, and I find myself needing…" Giving up on words, because they weren't getting him anywhere anyway, Mycroft stepped forward, dropping his umbrella just inside the door as his hands came up to frame Greg's face to hold him still while he kissed him. It wasn't a tender kiss, or even a particularly nice one. It was full of teeth and tongues, and a withheld violence fueled by helpless rage, and it was oddly perfect.

I had to find you, tell you I need you,

Tell you I'll set you apart…

The two men ended up in the bedroom with little preamble, barely having remembered to shut the door. Mycroft felt alone and cold, like he would never be warm again, and all he could think was that this man, somehow, could offer him a second chance at the life. He'd known the DI was attracted to him from the first extra-long handshake they'd shared, but he'd never allowed himself to act on these urges before. He'd never been able to handle the thought of losing control. Now, he needed a reason to not think, and as he fell onto the other man's bed, he realized that Greg was more than capable of giving him that.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

When it was over, they lay twined together, the thought of moving too much to bear for either of them. Greg didn't want to accidentally destroy the fragile bond between them, and Mycroft was retreating into a peaceful kind of sadness, resignation filling his bones. His brother was gone, but this… if he could let himself have nothing else in life, he could at least have this.

Tell me your secrets, and ask me your questions,

Oh, let's go back to the start

"We can make this work." Mycroft, who knew little of relationships and even less of affection, was not at all sure that he believed his own words. However, he knew he didn't want to lose this. He had to give it a try, even if there was no guarantee that he would get the answer he wanted. This wasn't one of his usual negotiations, where he had every answer and could play others like his brother had played the violin.

He wasn't going to manipulate this man. He would let him decide to be with him, or not, because he knew he was broken now, with nothing real left to live for, but he would very much like to learn to live for this man. This was what he had wished for since the first day they'd met, after all.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

It had been a long, exhausting day of work for Greg, and he was disappointed in himself, and his team, for having let a serial killer take another victim. He'd spent the entire day running around London chasing down leads, and it had gotten him nowhere. No one else had had any luck either. He hoped Mycroft would be back from his business trip soon.

Running in circles, coming in tails

Heads on a science apart

Oh, how Greg wished Sherlock was still alive. He would, undoubtedly, have solved this case in no time at all. That reminded him, he really needed to call John, see how he was holding up. Last week, on another day when Mycroft had been away, they'd cleaned his experiments out of the fridge and off the table, because the doctor didn't care how long it took a foot to dissolve in vinegar or how many different kinds of cigarette ash there actually were. Mycroft had requested keeping some of his things, like his microscope, but what John could bear to throw away went out with the trash.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Greg stared at the man he'd come to love over the past two years, though he'd never said the words. There were so many things he wanted to say, but he couldn't find the words. Betrayal was a knife in his gut, a weight on his chest that made it hard to move or breathe. And Mycroft? He wasn't defending himself at all, standing with his head bowed as though he already knew the accusations that would be leveled at him and knew he would be found guilty, because he was guilty.

"All this time, you let John mourn, you let me mourn, and you knew he was alive." Those were the words that had flown out of his mouth when he'd entered the flat they shared, moments ago, after seeing Sherlock for the first time in two years. He'd have punched him, except John had already gotten there. And he'd have punched Mycroft, if the man didn't look so crushed. His face looked as Greg had seen it only once, the day of the funeral for the man who wasn't dead. Feeling terribly betrayed, he turned around and left without another word.

I was just guessing at numbers and figures,

Pulling your puzzles apart

Mycroft sat down with his head in his hands, his heart shattering into pieces. It wasn't the Holmes way, to get sentimental about things, but fuck the Holmes way. The only man he'd ever love, the only man who had ever loved him, had just walked out of his life for the betrayal he'd had no choice but to commit.

Rising wearily, he went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a drink. Then he grabbed the bottle and brought it with him to the couch, slowly but steadily working his way through the bottle. It was morning by the time he stopped, slumping down on the couch with tears falling from his eyes. He loved his brother terribly, but he couldn't help thinking that this time, the cost of saving him from himself had been too high.

Protecting Sherlock had been his life for so many years, he'd nearly forgotten what it was to actually have happiness of his own. And now he'd found it and lost it again, and he felt he'd lost the right to ask for it back. He knew what the answer was likely to be anyway, and as he cried himself to sleep for the first of many nights, he wished that he could have told Greg he loved him. But it was too late now.

Questions of science, science and progress,

Do not speak as loud as my heart

Greg hadn't even asked how Sherlock had pulled it off. He hadn't cared. He was done with Mycroft, and Mycroft was… broken. This hurt every bit as much as losing his brother had, but there was, he knew, no miracle by which the cop would be returned to him, as his brother had. When he'd found out weeks after the funeral that Sherlock was alive, he'd been happy. But guilt had been his constant companion ever since, because he'd known that eventually, Gregory would find out. And now he had, and he was gone, and all the hope Mycroft had for his life with him.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Greg Lestrade was standing in his doorway, looking distinctly uncomfortable. He mustn't have shaved since leaving a week ago, because his cheeks were covered in stubble, and his eyes looked tired. Mycroft had known he'd stopped in a couple of days ago when he'd been out, presumably to pick up clothes, but he'd been gone again by the time Mycroft had returned home to their empty bed. Seeing him here was unexpected, and it hurt like a physical ache. The shadows in his eyes haunted Mycroft, because he knew he'd put them there, and knew that he probably looked about as good.

Mycroft couldn't help feeling hopeful—Gregory was home—but he quickly suppressed those thoughts. He had no right to think that Gregory had missed him.. He was, undoubtedly just here for his things, and then he would leave again.

Tell me you love me, come back and haunt me,

Oh, and I rush to the start

To Greg, this scene was familiar, if only because it had played behind his eyes every time he'd tried to sleep this past week. After a long talk with Sherlock, who'd explained that Greg's life had been at risk and that he would have died had anyone found out that Sherlock was still alive by his reactions, Greg had needed time alone. He'd slept in his office, only coming back to the home they'd shared once for clothes, while he tried to figure out if he could forgive Mycroft for keeping the secret.

Now, Mycroft watched him with a mixture of hope and agony in his eyes, and Greg offered him a rough half smile, knowing the expression wouldn't look very much like a smile at all. He was well aware that he was a mess, but he was here, now, with the hope of changing that. They had come full circle, he and Mycroft, and now he was back to offer him comfort once again if, after talking, he could indeed make the call that he was able to get past it all.

Running in circles, chasing our tails,

Coming back as we are

"I… look, Mycroft. We need to talk." The younger man flinched at Greg's words, but he did step to the side and let him in, hands visibly shaking. Greg stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the bottle on the coffee table, half empty, and realized it was not one of the ones that had been in the cabinet when he'd left. It occurred to him that the shadows under Mycroft's eyes were not just from lack of sleep, then. But his breath didn't smell badly enough for the redness of his eyes to be caused by alcohol…

"Have you been sitting here all alone drinking and crying?" It was not at all how Greg had meant to start, but the question had flown out before he could help it, and Mycroft offered him a small, humorless smile before sitting down and pouring himself a glass, not offering one to Greg as he imagined the man would not be there long enough to drink it anyway.

"Well, I hardly have anyone to drink with, and I do have emotions, Gregory. Hard as that might be for some people to believe." Draining his glass, Mycroft went to pour another, only to be stopped by a hand gripping his wrist tightly.

"No, Mycroft. We need to talk, and I think you've had enough for one night." Frowning at being denied the one thing that was able to erase from his mind the fact that he'd lost Gregory, his Gregory, forever, Mycroft nonetheless settled back in the couch. He could drink again when the man was gone, but he had enough dignity left that he would not argue over his right to drink when he wanted to. Being sober had been torture during the past week, and he was tired, so tired, of trying to pretend like he wasn't broken inside.

Nobody said it was easy,

Oh, it's such a shame for us to part

Resigned to his fate, Mycroft decided to let Gregory speak, if only to get this over with so he could go back to drinking himself into forgetting that his life, or at least, the part of it that was worth living, was over.

"My…Have you been doing this to yourself all week?" Again, this was not how Greg had intended to have this out, but he saw the depth of misery in the other man's eyes and found that he needed to know the answer. Had Mycroft really missed him as much as he'd missed the politician?

"I hardly think that's any of your concern." His tone was still stiff and restrained, and he didn't slur his words, for which Greg could only be grateful. This was a conversation he really only wanted to have once, and he didn't want to have to go through this all again in the morning.

"Like bloody buggering hell it isn't!" Greg raised his voice, and Mycroft flinched again, cowering back against the seat cushions in a way that made Greg's heart break for him as if hadn't already been doing so for the past week.

"Just take your things and go. Don't worry about me; I'll be fine. I know you have a thing about saving people, but I can assure you, it is unnecessary. I don't need your sympathy." The words were cold, but Mycroft's hands were shaking as he spoke, and he wouldn't look at the cop. He looked like he was going to break down at any moment, and he seemed desperate that Greg not be there when it happened.

Nobody said it was easy,

No one ever said it would be this hard

I'm going back to the start…

Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Greg reached out and took those trembling hands in his, earning a sharp intake of breath from the typically composed politician. At that moment, he was a wreck, and didn't seem to care all that much if Greg knew it. Those red eyes were full of defiance now, as if daring the DI to comment, to say anything at all.

Greg pulled him closer until the younger man was sitting on his lap, looking extremely surprised to be there. The shield only stayed down for a second, however, before those eyes iced over again.

"Let me go, Gregory." The cop was a little surprised to still be "Gregory" to the other man—he'd expected that Mycroft would go back to calling him by his title again, to symbolically erase the bond that had sprung up between them—but he decided he would take what he could get. Mycroft perched stiffly in his lap, but didn't try to move because he knew better than to think that Greg would let him go.

"No, I don't think I will. Not until you talk to me. Is this what you want, Mycroft? To give up on us completely?"

"You made it fairly clear when you walked out that night that it was over. I lied to you, betrayed your trust, and made a fool out of you because you believed in the man who, as your lovely second in command stated, hasn't got the compassion of an inchworm, and is even more of a freak than his brother. Do not come here and presume to play games with me. I will leave you alone as you obviously want, but please extend to me the same courtesy."

It was the DI's turn to flinch, now, and he reached up to cup Mycroft's face, knowing how important his next words were.

"My, I'm not here to play games. I'm here to see if there's any chance, any chance at all, that we can make this work despite everything. I talked to your brother, and he says you didn't know what he was planning, so you didn't have a chance to talk him out of it, and that my life, as well as John's and Mrs. Hudson's, were on the line if anyone else found out. Is that true?"

"Yes." Mycroft sighed, closing his eyes and pretending, for a moment, that Greg was holding him as he had before finding out the truth. He would have given anything to go back to the days when this cop loved him.

"And is it also true that you argued with him over hurting me and John with the lies, and that you told him that if he was going to do it he had to promise not to come back until he was sure we were safe?"

"Yes. If Sherlock's told you all of this, why do you need me to confirm it? You obviously know everything. There is nothing else I can say, Gregory."

Burying his face in his hands, he realized he was going to cry soon, whether the DI was there to witness it or not. He just wanted to be alone to grieve for the love he'd borrowed even knowing it wasn't his to keep.

"There's something that you can answer me that Sherlock never could. Why did you do it, Mycroft? And why are you doing this now, drinking yourself to sleep at night? If the whole point was to keep John and me safe until Sherlock came home… well, I can't see that you'd be doing this to yourself, were that the case."

"I was never with you because of Sherlock, Gregory." Voice breaking a little when he spoke his name, Mycroft rose, and this time, Greg didn't stop him as he moved to curl up on the other end of the couch, facing away and wrapping his arms around himself as if he was afraid that he would fall apart if he didn't hold himself together. Greg could see him having done this every night for a week, and he felt sick at the thought.

"Then tell me why." Greg said calmly, and Mycroft let out a sob, pressing a hand to his mouth in the next moment as if he couldn't believe his loss of control.

"I never thought you were cruel, Gregory." The words were whispered in a hoarse voice belonging to a man who felt like he'd lost everything, and Greg decided it was time for him to offer up some honesty as well.

"I know why I was here, My. And it wasn't because of Sherlock, either. It's because I love you." Mycroft made another sound, this one closer to a sniffle, and Greg realized he'd misheard. He thought that Greg was throwing his former love in his face. Shaking his head at the time they'd both wasted, he decided to clarify things once and for all, so there was no chance left of having any confusion left alive.

"You're not really listening to me, so I'm going to forgive you for looking like your favorite pet just died some horrible, tragic death. I said I love you, Mycroft. Present tense. I don't think I have to explain to a genius like you what that means? It means currently, as in still, despite everything and perhaps a little bit because of it, too."

The government man looked at him in shock, barely daring to believe his words. It was too good to be true, especially when Greg leaned over and kissed him gently, so gently.

Losing the last of his composure, Mycroft started crying in earnest, and it was a long, long time before he stopped. Eventually, though, the last of his tears dried up, and he was able to speak again. And he knew exactly what to say, even if he had never said the words before.

"I love you, Gregory Lestrade. I never meant to make such a horrible mess of things. It was too late to do anything by the time I found out the truth, and I couldn't bear to risk your life, even if it meant that I might lose you… The past two years have meant everything to me, and I knew that I would have to give you up, I just… I couldn't tell you, because I needed you safe, even though I knew you would hate me for it later. I know I hurt you, Gregory. And you will never know how sorry I am for that."

Before Mycroft could beat himself up any more, Greg pulled him in for another kiss, this one less gentle, though no less sweet.

"I know you're sorry. Just relax, My. I know, darling. I know." Looking him in the eye, Greg smiled a little, hopeful. He felt like he was making the right decision no matter what Donovan or Anderson said.

"Okay, Mycroft, I want to make this work. And I honestly think it can work. We've been happy these past two years, and I think we still can be. But I would need you to promise me something."

"Anything, Gregory." Mycroft hadn't dared hope for this, but Greg didn't play games. If he was saying there was actually a chance… "There is nothing I would not do for you."

"I need honesty. You can't ever keep something like this from me again. Before you mention it, I know that there will be a great number of times when you will be unable to tell me about your work, and times when I won't know where you are or what you're doing. I can handle that. But no more secrets like this one. No more secrets that have to do with us."

"I… Okay." It wasn't the most elegant statement ever, but Greg didn't need or expect elegance. He just needed Mycroft, and needed him to be honest.

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They ended up in bed together, a soft song playing on the radio as they held each other close, naked and sweaty and both happy for the first time in a week.

"I meant what I said earlier, Gregory. I will never again risk this for anything, not even my brother. I'll make sure that next time he decides to do something this foolish, he finds a better way and leaves me out of it."

"I know, Mycroft. I trust your word. And anyway, I did see you a couple of hours ago. I don't think either of us is willing to go through this again."

"I don't think I could stand to lose you again, Gregory. I'm not sure how I ever lived without you."

"Me either, My. But I don't think you'll ever have to again, somehow."


End file.
